Another tale to tell deep into 4 a.m.,
laboring to pull down reservations.
And it’s all to be said in the loving timbres of support
as wandering hands tangle up thoughtless limbs,
terraforming through passion to avoid paranoia’s suspicion
where a mattress is a makeshift cage.
Holding onto the bars, wavering between worlds;
a swan’s descent from an edge to a mangled mess,
or a prisoner’s acceptance of unfaltering circumstance.
Call it inspiration in broken bottle prose.
marching in the mire of melancholy.
Empty the dark into a collection of ink droplets
and weave lines into lies for self-medication
when remedies and white coats trade lies for a prize.
A reward for isolation’s motivation
by severing all ties deemed useless,
preparing for future ruins on distant maps
where perserverance ends in jagged shipwreck shores.
Sleep and slip away.
Rise to write the same.
Sleep and see no different.
Rise to write until the writing is off the walls,
wiped bare as emergency blares.
Tune out the noise to inherit depression’s drama.
Tune out the noise to greet the conclusion of a cliff’s bottom.